A World Shaken
by Rearden
Summary: Sahlin Lavellan is not the Inquisitor Cassandra wanted, she is hardly the Dalish Solish predicted, and she is like no mage Cullen has ever encountered. Second of the Clan Lavellan, Sahlin is the not the hero Thedas expected, but she may very well be the one it needs. (Specific emphasis to be given to the Solas backstory and post-story because, well, what the heck? right?)
1. The Temple Made of Ashes

**"Hurtled into the Chaos, you fight. And the world will shake before you." -Flemeth**

Sahlin Lavellan is not the Inquisitor Cassandra wanted. She is hardly the Dalish Solas predicted, and she is like no mage Cullen has ever encountered. Second of the Clan Lavellan, Sahlin is not the hero Thedas expected, but she may very well be the one it needs.

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><p><strong>AN:** Chapters will shift in perspective from character to character. POVs to include: Solas, Sahlin, Cullen, Cole, and maybe the occasional Bull.

Forewarning: Spoilers will eventually follow. Also be prepared to see a slightly more sinister and conniving Solas than you might like. This story will delve just as deeply into the Solas backstory as the Inquisitor's and, assuming I ever make it to the end, my thoughts on what exactly happened at the end of the game and how that will impact our favorite bald elf.

Final Note: I am unapologetically committed to the slow build romances. You'll see Solas/Lavellan, Cullen/Lavellan, probably even some Cullen/f!Hawke and if my favorite chapter makes the cut, a whole host of dredged up romances from my personal world state. Oh, and there will most definitely be some Bull/Dorian action later on as well. You can count on it.

But they're an angsty, baggage-ridden bunch, this lot. Their romances will take some time to build and tear down and, maaaaybe, to build back up again. If you're more of the instant gratification sort, I think I may post a few excerpted one-shots a little later on.

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><p><strong>Probably should add that this is my first fore into fanfic. <strong>

**CRITIQUE ME. **

**That's the whole point of this right? Getting pointers? Point taken? Too pointed? I'm stopping now...**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter One: The Temple Made of Ashes<strong>

_"It was a wasteland of rock and dust and fire they beheld, not the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Not anymore. Now this place was just another temple made of ashes. There would be no way to discern the charred remains of the countless mages and templars who had died here from that of their beloved Andraste. No, there was nothing sacred about this place any longer."_

_-/-_

_"Solas drew back his hand, allowing the prisoner's head to fall against the crook of her arm. Whatever magic bled from this elf, it was a borrowed mistake. Of that he was now certain. There was absolutely nothing extraordinary about this creature, save for the one, stolen eccentricity that made her easily the most extraordinary thing he had ever encountered. Another convulsion wracked the prisoner's body._

_It was that same feature that would kill her if he did not find a way to stem its progress, of this he was also certain. _

_And he needed that mark."_

**Solas**

He had seen the Temple of Sacred Ashes only once before, in a dream. Even then, it had been lost to this world, the sanctuary of a magic long since forgotten in Thedas. From the vantage of his Fade-dream, he walked with the Wardens of the Fifth Blight, observing their toils to reclaim a relic of few of their time truly believed existed. _Had he been Solas then?_ It was strange to admit, but he could no longer remember. That was the way of the Fade. Time was such a fickle concept there, such an unnecessary constraint, it was pointless to attempt to gauge his reality around its constructs. And yet he was certain he _had_ seen the Temple before. Though looking out at it now, Solas could not suppress his disappointment at having only experienced the sanctuary through the Wardens' eyes. True, there had been another human among them, and a Qunari as well. But memories in the Fade, much like memories in this world, belong to their creators. It would have been impossible to perceive anything within the Temple that the Wardens and their companions had not seen or noticed themselves…and humans were such an imperceptive race, the Qunari even worse.

Still, dulled though their memories had been, Solas had felt the humans' sense of wonder upon witnessing the Temple for the first time; he could sense their careful reverence as they approached the dais upon which Andraste's sacred ashes were kept. He had _felt_ more than seen the magnificence of the Temple's construction, the delicacy and intricacy of each deferential statue, the impossibility of the chamber's near-perfect preservation.

It was difficult to reconcile that image with the wreckage and rubble that stretched out before him now. Charred stone, wood, and brick lay scattered across the snow covered valley like building blocks knocked over by a child in a tantrum, never to be put back together again. Tendrils of smoke still snaked upwards from the burnt remains of the sanctuary that had stood here less than half a day earlier, and everywhere the smell of burnt flesh filled the nostrils. He had been close enough to see the Breach tear open in the sky, a massive rift sundering the tenuous Veil between this world and the Fade. He had felt the ground quake beneath his bare feet, and watched from a hilltop as the behemoth sanctuary crumbled. Receding like a wave back into the ocean, its stone gables and parapets washed back into the mountainside. He had _seen_ it happen, yet there was a part of him that still could not believe.

"This is all that is left." The voice behind him was quiet, almost reverent.

Solas only nodded.

It was a wasteland of rock and dust and fire they beheld, not the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Not anymore. Now this place was just another temple made of ashes. There would be no way to discern the charred remains of the countless mages and templars who had died here from that of their beloved Andraste. No, there was nothing sacred about this place any longer.

"Guards found _her_ here," his guide said, moving ahead of him, a wisp of red hair peeking out from beneath her drawn hood. _Her_, he knew exactly who the guide meant, _the mortal, the sole survivor of all … this._

Solas could not deny the twinge of jealousy that pierced him at the thought of a mortal having experienced the Fade in physical form. But he forced his thoughts away from the undignified sentiment, instead focusing on his guide picking her way through the rock and rubble. He had known the red-haired woman long before she introduced herself. He had walked with her as she walked with the Wardens. When she fell to the ground before the Urn of Sacred Ashes for the first time, abasing herself before her god and his bride, Solas had fallen to his knees with her; he had felt her humility, her unworthiness, her total surrender to the Maker, as if the sentiments had been his own. While there were those among this place who called her Sister Nightingale, Solas knew her to be Leliana, the lay sister and Orlesian bard made Left Hand of the now late Divine Justinia V. But the woman he trailed now hardly seemed the same girl he had encountered in the Fade-dream with the Wardens. This woman was hard and cold, a pale reflection of the ruined landscape before them. The curiosity in him ran rampant imagining what the past decade had held for her that could tarnish such a purity of spirit. Though he could not doubt the destruction of the Temple and the loss of the Divine had played a part, Solas was certain that hers was a darkness given life long before the events of this morning.

In front of him, Leliana stopped, looking down at a crop of red-stained snow. There was nothing at all discerning this particular ground from the rest of the wasteland. Nothing, save the fact that this was where they had found _her_, the mortal who had walked physically out of the Fade.

"Some of the men swear they saw a woman behind her," Leliana continued. "But when they searched the grounds, the prisoner was the only one left alive. To think that anyone could survive something like this…"

To think, indeed. The Divine's Left Hand could hardly begin to comprehend how inconceivable such a feat truly was. _To walk physically out of the Fade_, a mortal no less. Solas knelt down where Leliana indicated, but there was nothing to be seen here. The Veil was thin, true; he could feel the Fade tingling against his flesh. But that was no longer an uncommon sensation. With the Veil torn open by the Breach, the entirety of Haven was like a village seeped in the Fade and wrung out poorly to dry. The magic from the other side still dripped heavily from all that its magic had touched.

"Do you really believe you can help?"Leliana's question pulled him from his contemplations and Solas stood, knocking snow from his breeches. There was nothing more to see here.

"Nothing is certain," he replied. "But I do intend to try." And he meant it.

The Left Hand seemed to consider his words, eyeing him. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she nodded. "Then I will take you to the prisoner."

When Leliana turned toward Haven, Solas made to follow but the Orlesian woman rounded on him after only a few steps. Her hard eyes found his and held him there, considering yet again, weighing her distrust against her need.

"Your help _is_ welcome, Solas." She spoke slowly, allowing the weight of her words to sink in. "But if you give me any reason to doubt you, I will kill you myself." With that, the Left Hand of the Divine turned on her heel. She did not look back again.

Always such pleasant company, the quick children.

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><p>It was not an uneventful trek back to Haven. The Breach had weakened the barrier between this world and the Fade and the Veil strained under the burden, unable to prevent smaller rifts from cropping up across the mountainside. With each new tear, more spirits spewed forth like blood from a wound. And like blood from a wound, they turned, corrupted by the very air they breathed, discolored and disfigured, twisted into something angry and volatile and wrong. <em>How could he have been so careless?<em> Solas spent his mana on the rifts; he exhausted himself again and again attempting to repair even a single sundering. But it was not enough. _So much strength, lost._ In the end, he and Leliana had been forced to cut their way through the Fade-creatures; it was over an hour later before they finally managed to reach the Chantry prison, battle-worn and bloodied.

Solas chose not to ponder why a Chantry required a dungeon. He had accompanied the Wardens to Haven in the Fade, after all, and he recalled with almost perfect clarity the fanatics and cultists they had encountered in the village. A human memory might abandon the most beautiful nuances, but it would recall with infallible lucidity the threat of an assailant. Perhaps the dungeon should not have been that much of a surprise.

The prison was uninhabited save for a two-guard contingent flanking one of the nearer cell doors. Leliana gestured for the men to unbar it, leaving Solas with a moment to reflect on the information he had managed to scrape together thus far. When he had first made his way into the camp at Haven, even he had to admit that he could not have predicted what he would find here. But a Dalish elf condemned for the explosion that tore open the world would have easily ranked among the last of his guesses. In truth, when Leliana had told him that was who they were holding prisoner, Solas nearly laughed aloud. It was beyond ridiculous to think any mortal would be capable of creating the Breach that ravaged the sky over the temple, least of all a Dalish. A Tevinter magister he might have at least considered. But the magic of the Dalish had been failing for centuries, their ignorance now rivaling that of the Circle mages. Yet, the elf had been found alive among the wreckage, according the Orlesian. That alone was something worth investigating.

_There's something else as well_, Leliana had told him as they picked their way across the rocky pilgrim's path, _a mark on her hand. It looks like one of the rifts._ Solas could not have said which was more disturbing: the possibility that what Leliana told him might be true, or the tone of resigned indifference with which she had delivered this information. It was a testament, he thought, to how profoundly the world had broken that even this detail no longer warranted surprise.

One of the guards dropped the bar from the cell door and let it swing heavily from its cradle, smacking into the wall with a loud _thunk_ that brought Solas back into the present. The other guard pushed open the door and stepped inside. Leliana followed him and Solas moved to do the same when a wave of raw mana slammed into him. The force of it nearly knocked the breath from his chest and left him staggered, gaping at the door.

Elgar'nan himself could not have forced him into the room at that moment. It was not fear that stayed his feet so much as ache, an ache that welled in his chest and spread through his body, stretching into his furthest extremities, filling him, hurting, reminding. He knew that magic, had _felt_ that magic before, and he wanted to soak himself in it as desperately as he wanted to turn and flee this place, not ready to face what it could mean. He was vaguely aware of Leliana's eyes on him, staring, no doubt tying to discern some meaning in his hesitation. But Solas failed to care. He wallowed in the magic that seeped into his very pores, remembering what it meant to be himself again, to feel complete. In the Fade, even the most vibrant sensations are muted, mere echoes of what they once were. The vitality that surged through him now left his ears ringing and gave him a feeling of near-deliriousness. It was the magic of the Fade, pure, untempered by the Veil. Solas closed his eyes, breathing in, inhaling as himself for the first time in ages.

But the sound of metal boots scraping against stone brought him back. Solas sighed, opening his eyes to the perplexed looks of Leliana and her guards.

"Forgive me," he breathed, all the air still not fully returned to his chest. "The magic in that room, it is so old. I was not prepared for such a sensation."

Leliana's eyes narrowed onto his. "You can feel it from there?" She did not bother to hide her incredulity, and Solas could not fault her for her doubts. He barely believed it, himself.

"I can," he said simply, not caring to offer an explanation. To assuage the look of concern still plain on her face he added, "But I have steadied myself now. Come, let us see your prisoner."

With a slow breath, Solas collected himself and nodded to Leliana to lead the way into the cell. The Orlesian lingered only a moment longer and then turned, allowing him to follow her in. Solas had just barely crossed the threshold when the great door was pulled shut behind him.

"A precaution," Leliana explained.

"And I take it these men are also a … precaution?" Solas took in the scene before him. Four guards stood at the ready, each one with a hand on the hilt of his blade. Their eyes did not so much as waver when he and Leliana entered. Each guard was fixed on what looked to Solas to be little more than a heap of robes in the center of the chamber.

"Yes," Leliana answered. "We cannot afford to be careless. If this elf is the one who caused the explosion…" her voice trailed off. If she was, then what? Solas guessed even the Chantry forces, for all their apparent readiness, would not know what to do if the lifeless heap of robes he took to be their elf prisoner became animated.

"A fair point," he replied in a tone he felt sure was amicable enough. "Shall I take a closer look then?"

Leliana was not given an opportunity to answer before an earsplitting cry reverberated through the room, emanating from the prisoner. The elf's agony ricocheted off the stone walls and the room that only seconds before had been ill-lit by the dim glow of a single torch on each wall was bathed in a vibrant, expanding green. The color of Veil fire. Solas stared down at the figure writhing before him, disbelieving. What had seemed to be little more than a mound of scorched material had suddenly come to life. Manacled hands and feet stretched out, straining against the shackles that restrained them. But his eyes never left the prisoner's right hand. The palm of it reached out, split open like a tear in the Veil, bleeding a sickly green light that washed over everything in its wake. Another scream, and the mark widened, wild verdant sparks jumping out from it like lightning from the clouds. The elf prisoner thrashed against her shackles, indifferent to the metal tearing across her already raw and bloodied skin. Then as quickly as the light had come, it evaporated, sucked out of the room as if nothing had ever happened. The prisoner collapsed, writhing, her face planted against the wet stone floor. Her wracked breath and the metal-on-metal of four sheathing swords were the only sounds left in the room. The entire spectacle had lasted only a few seconds, but Solas's head was left reeling.

"It coincides with the Breach," Leliana explained after a moment, in that same tone of disturbing nonchalance. "When the Breach grows, so does the mark. Each time, it takes her longer to recover from the trauma. But she never wakes up."

Solas only nodded. So many questions were hurtling through his mind, it was difficult to even hear the Orlesian properly.

"We are at a loss, as you can see," Leliana continued. "So do what you can. I must return to the forward camp now. I have lingered here for too long. I will return in a few hours."

Solas nearly stopped her. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. But what were they? Where was he even to begin? So instead he offered Leliana an absent nod and ventured a step nearer to the prisoner. He heard the Orlesian woman knock on the door and the familiar scraping of wood on metal that told him the guards must have heard her knock as well.

"The elf does not leave this cell," she told the guards. There was a moment's pause and then the Divine's Left Hand added, "Either of them."

Solas could not help an inward grimace, but he kept his attention focused on the prisoner.

When the door behind him shut again, he knelt down against the stone floor, ignoring the guards though he was sure his presence was now included in their unwavering vigil. For the most part, their prisoner seemed like a pile of semi-burnt robes. But bare arms were still stretched out, limp against the floor where they had fallen after the mark's assault. Her pale skin was bruised and purpling if it was not already broken open and bleeding from her struggle against the restraints. Every so often, a convulsion would wrack her figure, the only overt indication she was even still alive. Hair the color of dried-out straw flopped like a mop over her face. Solas reached out a hand then paused, steeling himself for disappointment.

_It is not possible_, he chastised himself. _Whatever the explanation, it is not the one you hope_.

He took a breath and then continued, turning the prisoner toward him. It was easy enough, she had the lithe form that was so characteristic of her people. Facing him now, the prisoner looked no less dead than before. Her bloodied arms were still sprawled askance like a doll's and her head was still dropped down so that her nose was smushed against the stone floor. Solas pressed a finger beneath the elf's chin, turning her face toward his.

Her ears jutted out expectedly from beneath the choppy straw-colored locks, their unmistakable point marking her for what she was. The prisoner's features were those of the People and the blood writing that scarred her visage was a dull brown benediction to Mythal. The familiar emblem stretched out across the elf's forehead and wound itself in sinewy tendrils just beneath her closed eyes. An aberration of the original mark. Dalish. Solas let out the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. He had been foolish to allow himself to hope.

Solas drew back his hand, allowing the prisoner's head to fall against the crook of her arm. Whatever magic bled from this elf, it was a borrowed mistake. Of that he was now certain. There was absolutely nothing extraordinary about this creature, save for the one, stolen eccentricity that made her easily the most extraordinary thing he had ever encountered. Another convulsion wracked the prisoner's body.

It was that same feature that would kill her if he did not find a way to stem its progress, of this he was also certain.

And he needed that mark.

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><p>Two days later, Solas found himself pressing an irritated finger to his temple as the voices around him lashed out at one another from across the table. The wind that morning cut through his fur-lined coat and left a chill aching in his bones. It did not aid matters that he had not slept properly in days. The prisoner's condition left her life hanging precariously in the balance throughout the entirety of his first day at camp. He spent his magic upon her, easing what pain he could in an attempt to stave off death a little longer. The camp's potions master, Adan was his name, poured so many concoctions down the prisoner's throat that it hardly seemed necessary to force any soup down after. Both he and the alchemist labored over countless poultices to lather upon the mark. Nothing slowed its spread. Nothing improved their patient's condition.<p>

Solas was forced to resort to packing snow against the elf's forehead and in the creases of her arms to bring down the fever that heightened with each new attack from the mark. Even that seemed to provide her with little respite. When he despaired of his attempts, or when the potions master demanded a try, Solas would slink back to the cot they had provided him and search the Fade. But the Breach had already frightened away many of the spirits whose counsel he would seek. He knew those journeys into the Fade had been more a formality than anything, a mirthless attempt to convince himself he could _do_ something.

On the second day, the girl's fever broke and the convulsions lessened. There was considerable debate as to whether or not that should be taken as a good sign. Adan remained ardently optimistic his ward would wake soon. Solas was not so hopeful. That day had given over into night without any real change in their patient's condition.

When he awoke this morning, it was to a summons from Leliana to join her at the forward camp. It was becoming a habit among the humans at the Haven camp, sending for him. As if he existed to serve their whims, to answer their mindless inquiries. Nevertheless, these among the quick children _were_ trying, which was more than he could say for the rest of their race, and even if their questions were poorly-conceived and misdirected, they were intelligent enough to ask, at least. It was a hallmark of progress for the humans, if nothing else. So Solas allowed himself to be summoned here and there, and this morning that meant donning his heaviest cloak and making the pilgrimage to the forward camp. It was hardly an arduous walk, but in the wake of the Breach, even the coldest of winds felt colder and the warmest of cloaks seemed to provide disturbingly little insulation against the winter's harsh assaults.

As Solas climbed the last of the stone steps, he could already hear the angry voices lashing out at one another. It was a smallish group that had gathered at the forward camp and as he ventured closer, their arguments became more coherent, if no less belligerent:

"—would not even be possible if you would just send the prisoner to Val Royeaux!"

"She is our best hope at understanding what has happened, at closing the Breach." Even Leliana sounded strained. Her Orlesian accent left no doubt in his mind that the words had belonged to the Left Hand.

"Is that what your apostate has told you? Lies! We are in this mess because the mages reacted like animals, taking advantage of the Conclave to stage their massacre! And now you take counsel from one of them?"

"Chancellor Roderick is wrong about many things, Leliana, but this may not be one of them." He recognized the Seeker's Nevarran accent as well. Cassandra Pentaghast was a figure who, unlike Leliana, was entirely unknown to him before he had arrived at the camp. Her kind were easy enough to understand, though. Proudly brandishing the eye of her Order emblazoned across her breastplate, he had recognized the Nevarran immediately for what she was: a Seeker, a glorified kennel master trained to lord over her Templar-dogs. Cassandra had not attempted to hide her distrust of him or his staff since he had arrived. She had even gone so far as to demand he relinquish the weapon once more when she had learned of Leliana returning it to him. Solas had expected no less.

"How do we know Solas was not her accomplice?" the Seeker continued. "His arrival here was so unlikely—"

"Maybe it's just me," another voice interrupted, this one unrecognizable to him, "but if I just killed the Divine and tore a Blighted hole in the sky, this is the last place I'd be right about now. Accomplice or not, people who do that kind of shit don't stick around to check in on each other."

As he mounted the last of the stairs separating him from their little gathering, Solas found the dwarf whose voice this wisdom, however indelicately put, belonged to. The man was as short as he was broad with nearly as much hair on his half-bared chest as he had on his head. Solas inclined his own head in thanks as he took up a place at the makeshift war table beside the dwarf, but before he could give voice to his gratitude the Seeker was already attacking again.

"Nobody asked you, dwarf," the Seeker sneered back. "You shouldn't even be at this meeting!" She did not bother to acknowledge Solas's arrival.

"Seeing that my presence _was_ requested, Seeker," Solas cut in—it was not in his nature to remain silent against the clamor of the ignorant—, "I for one would like to second the dwarf's logic."

"Then perhaps you are not protecting your accomplice, _elf," _the Seeker spat back, turning her full attention to him now. "Perhaps you are poisoning her, thwarting Master Adan's attempts to revive the prisoner so that she cannot wake up and be made to undo all…_this_!" The Nevarran threw her hands up, gesturing generally at the desperate scene spread out before them.

It was enough. Chaos broke out across the table, a dozen voices clamoring to speak at once, to make their arguments heard. Some agreed with the Seeker. They threw fingers and glares at Solas and spit flew from their mouths as they yelled. Others defended him just as adamantly. What difference did it make if he was an apostate? they argued. _All_ mages were apostates now. They needed all the help they could get. What other choice did they have? Argument on top of argument on top of argument bellowed out across the mountainside.

"ENOUGH!" the commander's voice roared over every other, and slowly the din of voices around the table fell silent as each man and woman turned their attention to the hunched-over warlord glaring at them from the head of the table. Commander Cullen lead what ragtag forces resided at Haven and, from what Solas had gathered, refugees and soldiers, Chantry forces and Circle mages alike, all gave the man their respect. Witnessing him now for the first time, Solas could see what the others had seen in him.

"This is _not_ helping," the commander's voice rang out again. As he spoke, his glare fell indiscriminately across each and every person present. "More demons are pouring out of the Breach daily and our scouts have confirmed at least two more rifts that appeared yesterday alone." Around the table, faces burned red and hung in embarrassed shame.

Leliana seized that moment of silence to pick up the commander's cadence. "Cullen is right," she lobbied. "We _must _seal the Breach. That is our first priority. Solas," her hard gaze found his from across the table, "you believe the mark on the prisoner's hand could be used to do this, no?"

"I have theorized as much," he answered, shrugging. "but my beliefs are only that: a theory. At any rate, your prisoner would need to be conscious to even attempt it."

Leliana nodded, unfazed, and her attention left him for the potions master who stood just to the right of Chancellor Roderick. "Master Adan," she continued, "you believe the prisoner's condition is improving? What is the likelihood that she will wake up?"

"Pretty good, I'd say. Give it a day more perhaps."

Solas glared at the alchemist. There was no way for him to make such a prediction. It was a hope-ridden guess at best, and devising a plan around such a timetable would be folly.

"We may not have that kind of time, Adan. What we need to consider—" Cullen stopped mid-sentence as a shout rang out from the path to Haven.

"Commander! _Commander_! Seeker! Lady Nightingale!" The entire table turned to watch the interloping guard hurtle himself across the camp, jumping over crates and knocking into people as he raced towards them.

"What in the Maker's name?" Cullen set off to meet his man, followed closely by Cassandra and Leliana.

"Prisoner—she's…she's…" the man panted between breaths, doubled over and heaving hot air into the frosty morning.

"She's awake," Leliana completed his sentence. She didn't even pause to confirm that her deduction was correct. The Orlesian took off towards the gates at once, Cassandra matching her pace stride-for-stride.

"No…Seeker…rift," the guard still heaved out his words, looking ready to reproduce his breakfast there and then.

"Spit it out, man," the commander demanded, "is the prisoner awake or not?"

The guard swallowed another gulp of cold air and, still bracing himself against his knees, made an effort to deliver his message in its entirety: "Yes, yes sir. But there's a-another rift. Just tore open. Right at the gate. Six men dead. Erik, he told me about the prisoner before he-he died. Demon just jumped out of the ground, sliced him down the side before I got to him. Can't go that way, sir."

Leliana and Cassandra had halted their advance long enough to hear the gist of the guard's message. One of them must have said something then because both women turned in unison in the direction of the ridge pass. It was the longer route, but it would lead them to their destination soon enough.

Before anyone could say or do anything else, yet another warning sounded from the gate to their backs.

"Commander!" it was a different guard, this one no less exasperated than the last. "Another rift on the bridge!" the man cried out, not even waiting for Cullen's eyes to find him. "We'll lose the path to the Breach!"

To his credit, Cullen paused for but a fraction of a moment before he made towards the bridge. "Mobilize the men," the commander shouted, already halfway to the gate himself. "I want every abled hand at that rift in ten minutes' time!"

The camp broke out in a frenzy as men and women grabbed for swords, axes, bows, anything they could get their hands on.

Solas was about to make for the ridge pass himself, to follow Leliana and the Seeker to the newly-awakened prisoner, when the voice at his side stayed him.

"Guess that leaves the other one for us, baldy," the dwarf remarked. From the man's tone, Solas had expected to see a cocky grin split across his face. But when he looked down, he could see the dwarf's grim eyes set on the gate directly ahead of them. Not wasting another moment, the dwarf pulled an oversized crossbow from the sling that held it against his back and made for the gate. "Come on," he shouted behind him, "Cassandra's prisoner's going to have to test that mark out somewhere. Let's make sure she survives long enough to try it."

For the briefest of seconds, Solas stared at the scene stretched out before him, at the scouts and soldiers and refugees scrambling for weapons, all of them racing for the rift on the bridge. They broke around the dwarf like the sea against a rock, all of them running in the opposite direction. The dwarf did not pause, his course did not waver. Massive crossbow in hand, he made for the rift the others intended to abandon. In that moment, Solas saw an image of the durgen'len of Old walking steadfast into battle, spurred on only by their resolute sense of honor. And for the second time in two days, his heart ached for the shadows of a world forgotten.

But his leather-bound feet did not dare hesitate any longer. Solas set off to follow the child of the stone. His hands found a long oak staff jutting from one of the supply crates in his path. The elf grasped hold of its hilt mid-stride and made his way to the gate.


	2. Tel'na Herald

**"Hurtled into the Chaos, you fight. And the world will shake before you." -Flemeth**

**A/N:** Preview for upcoming chapters: The next one will be a Cullen POV, followed by Solas again.

There is a _lot_ of elvish in this chapter, some of which I _miiiight_ have made up with some DA-Wiki guidance. There's a glossary of terms of the end of this chapter. Most translations will be made apparent in-text, though.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Two: Tel'na Herald<strong>

_"Their little shem-quisition was poorly mistaken if it thought some fine clothes and a pair of boots would hide the fact of her tall ears and marked face."_

_-/-_

_"'The magic that still lives in your hand, can you feel it?' He pressed the palm of his hand against hers, and though she felt her breath catch, she was certain it had nothing to do with the magic he described."_

**Sahlin**

Sahlin fell back against the door, furious. She refused to think of it as _her_ door or _her _room. These were not things the Dalish had, doors and rooms or beds stuffed with…whatever it was the shemlen stuffed their mattresses with. Of course, the Dalish were hardly in the habit of being referred to as the Chosen of Andraste either, but that hadn't seemed to stop the shem yet. Without thinking, Sahlin slammed a fist backwards against the door, letting out a cry of rage with it. This was _wrong_. It was all wrong. None of it seemed real and, despite herself, Sahlin kept waiting to wake up, half-convinced she was trapped in some Fade-nightmare. But she was the Second—no, _First_, she reminded herself bitterly—of her Clan, an apprentice to Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel. She knew the Fade and the machinations of its nightmare demons, and this was no dream. It was real enough, but it was still _wrong_.

Only yesterday morning, she had been half-dragged out of a Chantry cellar and paraded across the Haven camp for all the reviling eyes of their round-eared army to see. She had never seen so many humans in her life. Creators, she had never seen so many _people_ in her life! They were packed together like animals, herding around campfires, chewing on rations, sharpening their daggers, fletching their arrows, and staring…directly at her. Every shem in the yard had stopped what they were doing when the Seeker, Cassandra, led her out. And they glared. They glared their hatred and revulsion at her so hard it physically hurt. There was death in each and every stare, and she had no doubt that, if given the chance, they would have torn her limb from limb. If they could have, they would have killed her and brought her back to life to kill her again, a thousand times over. So hard were their eyes, so full of hatred. Never before had she felt such pure, blind hate and it terrified her. More than once, a refugee hurled something at them: an apple, a rock, a slab of raw meat. The Seeker deflected each missile with ease and snapped at the offender to get back to work, but that hardly made a difference.

_"_They have already decided your guilt," the Seeker explained and, despite herself, Sahlin moved closer to the woman. She knew what they thought her guilty of; she had already been told in the dungeons. To them, she was the knife-ear who had killed their Divine, who blew up their sacred temple, and every last one of them wanted her dead. It was madness, and yet there was no other explanation. Even worse, she had no memory to combat their allegations. Pain tore through her every time the Breach expanded. The mark on her hand radiated with its power and she could feel it threatening to tear her in half with it. It took all her concentration just to focus on remaining conscious.

Those events seemed like a lifetime ago now. She remembered them in the same way she remembered one of Old Tariel's fireside stories. She was sure these things had happened, but not to her and certainly not just yesterday. It was all _wrong_.

Now, only a day later, she was able to walk openly across the Haven camp yard without fear. People still stopped and stared as she passed, but the revulsion in their eyes had been replaced with awe. Those that did not stare, bowed their heads in reverence. Guards halted when she came near, clicking their heels together and holding their fists to their chest to pay respect, and when she climbed the snowy steps to the Chantry, refugee children ran ahead of her, throwing winter flowers in her path. They called her _Herald of Andraste. _Yesterday, the mark on her had was a death sentence. Today, it was providence. It was all _wrong_. None of it made any sense.

She wondered if the soldiers remembered calling her knife ear, or if the man who bade the blessings of Andraste go with her knew that she was the same elf he'd thrown an apple at the day before. Where did they think _that_ elf had gone? Or were these shemlen so fickle in their beliefs that they were truly capable of calling for her execution one day and regaling her as the Chosen of their Maker the next? It was wrong.

They gave her a house made of logs. The ambassador called it a _cabin_ and apologized for its comeliness. "It's not much," the woman said in a heavy Antivan accent. It was a single room with a door, and a window, and a bed on top of legs, and a table with a chair, and a massive wooden box with drawers. Even with all the furniture, there was still space left to walk around inside. It was larger than any Dalish aravel she had seen and when she told the ambassador as much, the Antivan woman merely shook her head. "These are not quarters befitting the Herald of Andraste," she said sadly. Sahlin wanted to correct her, to explain _again_ that she was no one's herald, least of all Andraste's. But the ambassador spoke the title so softly, with such reverence, it seemed cruel to deny her.

It was all _wrong_.

Sahlin sank down to the floor, her back pressed against the door that she would not call hers. She could still hear people moving about the camp outside, their never-ending din of voices and swords and stomping feet and slamming doors transformed into one giant, muted cacophony. All her life, she had dreamed of venturing beyond the carefully constructed perimeters of the Lavellan camps, of seeing the world beyond the life of the Dalish. Now, here she was, farther from the Free Marches than she had ever been and embarking for the Hinterlands tomorrow morning, and all she could think about was home, of her sister and her brother and his family, of their father and his warm, halla-scented embraces. Most of all, her thoughts turned to Adris and her heart ached for the weight of his lanky arm slung across her shoulder, for the sound of his teasing and the comfort of his constant certainty. It was Adris who should be here, not her. It was all _wrong._

Their memories welled up inside her, unbidden, and despite herself, Sahlin could not stop the hot tears from running down her cheeks. They were the first trickles through an already fractured floodgate, barely holding back the memories whose tide she had fought against for so long. She slammed her fist against the door again, but the damage was already done; the floodgates were broken, and the more she beat her fist, the harder she cried; the fiercer she hugged her knees to her chest, the more memories came crashing down upon her. Out of order, incoherent, unrelenting, they slammed into her like waves against the Wounded Coast.

* * *

><p><em>She was seven years old <em>_and her bare toes gripped stone as she hauled herself indecorously atop one of the massive statues of Fen'Harel. It was the farthest from camp she'd ever been._

_"What's wrong?" she teased. "Afraid of the Dread Wolf?"_

_"I am not!" a ten-year-old Adris yelled back at her from where he stood, his own toes hugging the invisible line that separated their camp from the forest beyond._

__"Look, he doesn't bite." Sahlin swung her legs over the stone wolf's haunches and gave his head a hard __thump__. "Besides, don't you want to know what they're all doing? They've been gone for__ hours!"

* * *

><p><em>Only two weeks ago, they stood at the camp's end, the stone statues of Fen'Harel marking the Lavellan border. <em>_Nolle was the last to say goodbye, and Sahlin could not help but smile as her sister pressed the forehead of her naked countenance against her own. _

_"This is your dream, sister," Nolle whispered. "Try to be happy. It's what Adris would want."_

_The sound of his name left a knot in her throat, and it was all Sahlin could do to nod in response._

* * *

><p><em>Adris held his hand firmly over her mouth. Her frightened tears spilled out over his fingers as they watched the metal feet stomp past the log they hid under. <em>

_ "__Go back to your city, shem. You want no fight with the Dalish." She recognized the voice of one of their hunters, Tirrith, and guessed that the leather-wrapped feet standing closest to the metal ones must be his. From where they hid, it was impossible to make out anything but legs and knees and feet. Blood-red skirts hemmed in gold danced around the metal feet, and though she had never seen one before, she knew that the men Tirrith spoke to were templars. Beside the metal feet, her people were easy enough to pick out. Most of them wore the leathers of their hunters and scouts, but there were also two pairs of wrapped feet hidden under the robes worn only by Dalish mages, one of them blue, the other a warm yellow. _

_Sahlin's eyes never left the blue skirt. _

_ "__Your apostates are a long way from home, knife-ear. The Knight-Commander might ignore your malificarum in their landships, but I don't see any tents here." It was the first shem voice she had ever heard, and the sound of it sent a shiver down her spine. The accent was all wrong; it was too angry, too hard. She wanted to run back to the camp and regretted ever teasing Adris about being afraid to leave._

* * *

><p><em>"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now." <em>_The shem voice in her ear was low, dangerous. Nevarran._

_The Seeker's hand was rested against the hilt of her sword, ready._

_Sahlin's knees ached from where they dug into the stone ground of the dungeon, and her wrists throbbed, bloodied and raw under the manacles keeping her staked to the ground. She grasped desperately to remember…anything. But there was only blackness... and a hand, emblazoned in fire, reaching out to her._

* * *

><p><em>The fire from the bushes burned hot against her cheeks, but she dared not run now. Screams filled her ears. Adris pressed his hand harder against her mouth, refusing to let her scream mix with those of their people. Tirrith's dead eyes watched them from where he fell, no longer capable of seeing them staring back. Through all of it, her own eyes never left the blue skirt. She followed its every movement, begging it to turn and run away. She said every prayer she knew, begged Mythal the Protector and silently screamed out for Elgar'nan to come and save them. But the blue skirt stopped moving.<em>

* * *

><p><em>"Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker's will is written. Is that what you want from us? Blood? To die so that your will is done?" Leliana knelt at her makeshift altar, glaring at the Chantry as she spoke. "Is death your only blessing?"<em>

_Sahlin had already moved to leave when the hooded woman turned on her. "You speak for Andraste, no?" she demanded. "What does the Maker's prophet have to say about all this? What's his game?"_

* * *

><p><em>Sahlin tore against Adris but he was older and twice her size. He kept her pinned beneath the log. Her mother's head hit a rock as she fell, her body crumpling around her like a broken doll, wrapped in blue. A line of blood rolled down over Mythal's mark, over her mother's closed eyes, and across her nose. She felt Adris's other hand against the back of her head, forcing her face into the crook of his arm, willing her not to look. <em>

* * *

><p><em>"Have you seen the sky? What about the temple ruins? The bones lying in the dust?" Leliana spit out the horrors of the past few days, the pain of each atrocity inflected in every word. "Even if you didn't support the Divine's peace, you wouldn't call this right. Who could? So many innocent lives, the faithful murdered where the Holiest of Holies once stood. If the Maker willed this, what is it if not a game or a cruel joke?"<em>

_"I don't know," Sahlin whispered. _

_It was the first time she actually _wished_ she were the Maker's Chosen. Perhaps then she could ease some of their pain. It was what they all expected of her, it was the reason she was not dead. Because they believed she could save them. _

_They were wrong._

* * *

><p><em>"You have said you do not believe you are the Chosen of Andraste," the Seeker said slowly, selecting each word carefully. "Does that mean you also do not believe in the Maker?"<em>

_Sahlin answered quickly. It was a question she had prepared for, expecting it to be a common one in the days to come. "I believe in the elven gods," she said. She lied, more like it. Still, it seemed a reasonable enough response._

_But the Seeker's eyes did not release her. __"And is there truly no room among your gods for one more?"_

* * *

><p><em>The sylaise'len emerged from the tent and found Carahel standing in the crowd that waited. Her father had leapt up the moment the healer appeared, dropping Sahlin off his lap where she sat. She hurried behind her father, clinging to his leg as the sylaise'len took his elbows in her palms. She pressed her forehead against her father's.<em>

_ "__Ir'abelas, Carahel. Samahl is with Falon'Din, may he guide her in Bellanaris."_

_Hands grabbed at her when she ran for the tent. She kicked at them and screamed and cursed them all to Fen'Harel. They could not have her, not her mother. The sylaise'len was wrong. She was lying._

* * *

><p>The memories beat against her, one after another, unrelenting. And suddenly, Sahlin felt like she was seven years old again. Only it was a shem door and not the wheel of an aravel she rocked herself against, and it was thousands of unnamed mages and templars who had died, not her mother and Tirrith. And there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing she could do to stop them, to take it back, to make it so it hadn't happened. She buried her face against her knees and didn't care about the snot or spit or tears that pooled there. It was all wrong.<p>

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_I was a templar. I know what they're capable of," his voice was soft, almost pained._

_The ambassador was speaking again in her foreign accent and careful words but Sahlin was no longer listening. She stared at the commander, with his kind eyes and his regret over the losses at Haven. His eyes found hers and she looked away, not wanting to see the hurt, not caring. She had already imagined him in the blood red skirts, holding the templar sword and demanding his Maker's __justice. It was an image she could never un-see._

* * *

><p><em>They stood at their massive war table, moving pieces, making plans. None of them asked her opinion. They did not care that she was not the Maker's Chosen, would not even listen to her arguments to the contrary. She wanted to close the rifts, to contact the mages, to seal the Breach. It was not time, yet, the ambassador said. They could not approach the rebel mages, not without more support. Sahlin could not imagine how it could possibly be that complicated. There was a <em>hole_ in the _sky._ The mages could help her to seal it. How was it not that simple?_

_There was a woman by the name of Mother Giselle in the Hinterlands who wanted to meet the Herald, Leliana explained. They always said "the Herald" or "the Herald of Andraste" when they spoke of her. She did not want to go, did not see the purpose in it; she wanted to contact the mages. But Josephine was asking the spymaster what they should have the Herald wear, not listening. Sahlin gaped at them._

_"You understand, of course" the ambassador said and Sahlin wanted to scream that she did not. How could it _ever _matter what she wore when there was a _hole_ in the _sky_? But the ambassador continued before she got the chance. "It is important to consider how we will appear to the people of Thedas," she explained, as if to a child. "What we require most right now is support."_

_"So look for opportunities to expand the Inquisition's influence," the templar added. If he noticed the glare she gave him, he had the good sense not to remark on it._

_She was not some Circle mage, and she was not his ward. The templar's commands fell on pointed, deaf ears._

* * *

><p>The tears had finally stopped, replaced with a hot rage that wrapped itself around her stomach. Sahlin's fingers found the laces of the leather boots that had been the only footwear made available to her that morning. She tore at the knots, fumbling, too angry to do anything properly. When she finally jerked the first boot free, she reared back and threw it as hard as could across the room. It connected with a shelf on the far wall and sent books sprawling across the bed and floor beneath. Fen'Harel could have them all, the commander and the Seeker and the spymaster, even the ambassador.<p>

She had been careless to believe them and their talks of actually closing the Breach, to think that she would somehow play a part in it, to believe that they would actually _do_ anything. Keeper Deshanna's lectures on the shemlen, on the impossibility of any friendship between their peoples ricocheted between her ears, teasing her. Of course Deshanna had been correct about this as well. She had allowed herself to feel pity for Leliana, to admire the Seeker's strength, if nothing else. She had actually respected the commander and felt humbled by the ambassador's clumsy attempts to respect her culture. But they had made it clear that she was just another piece on their table, a glowing hand to be moved from one location to the next, to do their bidding. But the Dalish served no one. Their little shem-quisition was poorly mistaken if it thought some fine clothes and a pair of boots would hide the fact of her tall ears and marked face. Sahlin turned her attention on the second boot, attacking it just as fiercely, when a hard knock at the door interrupted her assault. She paused, the second boot already half-unlaced, praying that whoever it was would just go away.

Another knock, followed by a familiar but not entirely unwelcome voice.

"You in there, kid?" It was Varric, the dwarf they had met on the battlefront yesterday.

Sahlin heaved a sigh, deflating. She couldn't even have this one moment of fury to herself. With one last curse, she hauled herself to her feet, rubbing her damp cheeks on the inside of her coat in the process. Before the dwarf could knock again, she pulled the door open, blinking against the hard afternoon sunlight that poured in.

"Sorry, I—"

"Don't worry about it," the dwarf waved off her apology as he let himself in. Sahlin moved aside to make room, not entirely certain what she was supposed to do when someone knocked on the door that wasn't hers. To her surprise, the bare-faced elf, Solas, also followed the dwarf in. The elf inclined his head politely, but said nothing, allowing his dwarven companion to continue. "If I just got back from a meeting with the big heads," Varric was saying, "I'd lock myself away in my room too."

Sahlin forced a smile, not entirely sure what to say to that. Fortunately, she didn't have to say anything. The dwarf seemed content to go on talking enough for the three of them.

"So now that Cassandra's out of earshot," he said, "I just thought I'd check in and see if you're holding up alright." Sahlin's tear-crusted cheeks burned red and she was suddenly all too aware of the books sprawled across the room, the boot that lay suspiciously on the bed just beneath the lopsided shelf, and the other boot, still half unlaced on her foot. Both Solas and Varric were obviously aware of the scene as well. The elf watched her with a bemused half-smirk draped across his naked face, while Varric set about collecting the scattered books, his monologue still in full swing: "I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful!" He set the books he'd collected on a table in the corner. "Most people would have spread that out over more than just one day."

Sahlin gave herself a moment to be sure the dwarf was finally finished before answering. She didn't even know where to begin. How was she holding up? Poorly. _This is all wrong!_ she wanted to scream at him. But somehow even she knew that wouldn't be appropriate. When she caught the dwarf eyeing the lone boot still left on her foot with an amicably raised brow, Sahlin decided on the simplest possible answer she could offer.

"My feet hurt," she said with a shrug. "I don't know where they took my clothes, and these—" she gestured at the shem garments that made up her Josephine-approved-Herald-ensemble, "are _fine_," she spat the word, "I guess. I'd just like to have my leathers back if nothing else."

Sahlin frowned. The answer sounded pitiful, whether it was the truth or not. Fen'Harel take her, she _was_ disgraceful. 'Pathetic' was never a descriptor she'd have ascribed to herself before, but it pretty accurately captured the sentiment she felt now. She doubted her father or siblings could even remember the last time they'd seen her cry, and now here she was, puffy eyed, red-faced, dressed like a flat-ear, with blisters boiling on her heels and her shem room in a state of disarray because she'd just thrown a tantrum. 'Pathetic' most certainly fit.

But the dwarf merely barked out a hearty laugh, and somehow Sahlin felt sure there was nothing mocking to it. "Kid," he laughed, "if that's your biggest concern right now, I'd say you're doing alright. What do you think, Chuckles, can you get something for the girl to wear or should I just cut the toes out of a pair of my socks for her? Same thing, right?"

The elf smiled good-naturedly at his stocky companion. "Is it 'Chuckles' now, Varric? I was just growing fond of 'Baldy.'"

"Yeah, well, I figure we'll be here for a while and who knows when you'll get a chance to shave again. That's assuming you people do shave, I guess. Point is, 'Baldy' just wouldn't have quite the same ring to it if you started sprouting hair. Besides, 'Chuckles' has something of an _everlasting_ quality to it, don't you think?"

She followed their banter silently, in awe of how they could even joke in the wake of everything that had happened. But listening to them, watching the pair of them, so easy and unaffected, she could feel the knots in her stomach finally beginning to loosen.

"In either event," the elf replied evenly, "I came here to check on our guest's mark, not to play dress up. But I shall see what I can find."

"See that you do. We can't have Andraste's Herald hobbling across Thedas like a lame nug!"

The elf raised a brow, but didn't deign to comment on his companion's analogy. Instead, his pale eyes found Sahlin. "I had almost forgotten," Solas remarked, "you are the Chosen of Andraste, the blessed hero sent to save us all!"

The elf's tone was light, possibly even jesting, but his bare face made her wonder. She had heard of the flat-eared elves found in shemlen Alienages and Circles. For all she knew, Solas was an Andrastian. For all she knew, he truly believed she was the Maker's Chosen, that she somehow _could_ save them all. At that realization, all the levity of the previous moment evaporated, and the knot in her stomach tightened all over again.

"Tel'na, Herald," Sahlin replied, a little more harshly than she had intended. "I am no one's chosen."

She felt guilty for the words almost the moment they left her tongue, but the weariness of the war council was still fresh, and she was not in the mood to be reminded of just how little control she had over this new title of hers or, apparently, anything else for that matter. She was about to apologize for her rudeness when Varric snorted.

"I don't speak elf, kid," he said, squaring his gaze on hers, "but I'll tell you this: Chosen of Andraste or not, these people needed something to believe in and you gave them exactly that. That makes you a hero in my book any day. And if you haven't read my books, well, you'll just have to take my word for it: I know my heroes. Oh, and don't forget about those elf-socks, Chuckles."

The dwarf gave her a quick wink and turned for the door. "Let me know if you ever need anything," he called over his shoulder, "_oh Holy One._"

With that Varric pulled the door shut behind him, his laughter following him as he went. Sahlin stared after him. _Chosen of Andraste or not, these people needed something to believe in_, the dwarf's words still rang in her ears, _and you gave them exactly that_.

* * *

><p><em>"It isn't that simple, Sahlin, and you know it."<em>

_She glared at Adris, weary of his composure, of his casualness, of his _acceptance_._

_"Why should I know it?" she challenged. "Because Deshanna tells us it is true? She still _believes_, Adris. For all her reasoning, for all her wisdom, Deshanna believes as strongly as Old Tariel that the Creators still hear our prayers. She believes they are locked away, tricked by Fen'Harel, and she still damns Him for it. _

_"But they're never coming back. They abandoned us. I know you believe as I do. __We spend our entire life wandering aimlessly, grasping for a world that doesn't __exist anymore when we could live _free_, when being Dalish could mean something _more_. And you would truly continue the Old Ways, believing as you do?"_

_Adris offered her a weak half-smile, and before he had said a word, she knew she had lost. _

_"I'm Deshanna's First, vhenan," he said. "I will be a steward of Lavellan, nothing more. Would you have me steal the meaning from Tariel's life, from his stories? Would you have me forbid Arhen from calling to Sylaise before he tends his patients? Would you have me rob him of the certainty that gives him a steady hand a clear mind? Should I tell your father that Ghilan'nain does not hear him when he prays? Why? To what end? _

_"The role of a Keeper is to _protect_ his people. I will not be the one to destroy their faith, vhenan, not when they still need it. I can't."_

* * *

><p>"I should be able to find you a decent pair of footwraps."<p>

Sahlin jumped. She'd been so lost in the memory that she had entirely forgotten about Solas. The elf didn't seem to notice her surprise, or if he did, he had the grace not to comment on it. Instead, he merely gestured her toward the bed.

"Here," he said, "let me see your blisters."

Embarrassed all over again, Sahlin politely shook her head. "They're not too bad. I'll make a poultice for them later." In truth, they were excruciating, but the thought of letting some stranger—elven or not—analyze her feet was hardly an option.

"Suit yourself," he answered easily, not at all offended, "but here, sit down all the same. I met Varric practically at your doorstep. Cassandra asked me to look in on you, to see that your mark was still stable."

Of course she did. Couldn't have the Herald of Andraste losing her glowing green Herald-ness. But she didn't bother to argue. Instead, Sahlin hobbled one-boot-on-one-boot-off to the foot of her bed, finally jerking off the offending footwear when she sat down. The bare-faced elf followed her towards the bed, dragging with him the only chair in the room.

"If you don't mind my asking," Sahlin ventured, "how is it you know so much about the mark?"

"In truth, I know little more about your mark than you or even Cassandra, for that matter." Solas settled into the chair and reached for her hand, turning it over in his own, inspecting. "I was not far from Haven when the Breach appeared, and I have spent a considerable amount of my life studying the Fade. I came to offer whatever assistance I could, though I never expected that assistance would extend to a mortal mark capable of controlling rifts in the Fade itself. You are quite the mystery."

Sahlin felt the color rise in her cheeks. There was something in his manner, so confident and yet so unassuming, it was difficult not to feel small under the weight of his stare.

"The magic that still lives in your hand, can you feel it?" He pressed the palm of his hand against hers, and though she felt her breath catch, she was certain it had nothing to do with the magic he described. "It is from the Fade itself. Pure, untempered by the Veil—" his voice trailed off as his eyes moved from their entwined hands to her face. "Forgive me if I have startled you," he said suddenly, letting her hand fall from his. "It was not my intention."

Sahlin felt her cheeks burn even hotter and she shook her head. "No, it's not that—I just, well, you don't seem like any Circle mage I've ever met and—"

An earnest smile replaced the concern on his face. "Then I must ask you to forgive me once more, da'len," he said. "I sat beside you for so long in the dungeon, I have forgotten that we do not know each other. Shall we begin anew?"

Sahlin nodded. In fact, she found herself quite eager to know more about him, this elf with no vallaslin, who seemed to know so much more than the rest of the Inquisition forces. "I would like that," she said.

"As would I. Well, you already know my name, and I have gathered you are Lavellan—"

"Sahlin, actually. Lavellan is the name of my Clan."

"So it is. I know the Dalish customs, da'len, but thank you, for entrusting me with your familiar name." There was a terseness in his reply that had not been there before.

Sahlin frowned at the change in his tone, not sure what exactly she had said to warrant it. "Ir'abelas, lethallin, I just thought…Were you born into a clan, then? Before you were sent to the Circle?"

"There is nothing to forgive," Solas said. His tone remained polite, but it had lost some of its frivolity. "I grew up in a village to the north. I have never been a part of any Circle."

Sahlin narrowed her eyes, "You seem to know so much about the Fade, I just assumed—"

"A safe assumption, certainly, but incorrect nevertheless. The village I grew up in had little to interest a young man gifted with magic. I found myself bored among the company of my peers. But as I slept, spirits of the Fade showed me glimpses of wonders I had never imagined. They became my friends, my teachers. I treasured my dreams." The lightness in his tone had returned, as if the mere memories of his 'friends' in the Fade were enough to return a smile to his face. "Being awake, out of the Fade, became troublesome. I had learned to control my dreams with full consciousness, and there was so much I wanted to explore. But this world or—rather—its memory, is reflected in the Fade. To visit new places in my dreams, I had to find new places in this world first." She must have looked puzzled then, because he added: "Dream in ancient ruins, you may see a city lost to memory. Dream in a village to the north, and you will only see the memories of that place. So, you see, I had to leave my village to continue my studies. I was in an abandoned ruin not far from here when the Breach was sundered. And so now you have my story."

Sahlin listened to his tale, enraptured. One detail in particular had leapt out at her, and she seized on it now. "You're a somniari, then, a dreamer?" she asked. "You can actually _control_ your dreams?"

Solas arced a brow. "I am. It is a very rare gift, and one that very few are familiar with. I am surprised you know the term at all."

"Had we met a few years ago, I might not have," she said. It was true, the term—the gift—was rare, and her first encounter with its magic still left her somewhat unsettled. To Solas's still-arced brow, she added, "There was a boy in the Kirkwall Alienage that my clan sheltered for a time. He'd been sent to us by one of the south Marcher clans. He was a mage, a somniari. But his dreams…they were different than the ones you describe.

"I'd never seen our Keeper afraid before, not ever. She's the kind of woman you could never imagine as a child, getting scolded by her mother or one of the elders. Keeper Deshanna may be a lot of things. Afraid just isn't one of them. But that boy, Feynriel, he terrified her." Sahlin suppressed a shudder. It was still disconcerting to think of anything scaring Deshanna Istimaethoriel. "The rest of the clan wasn't told what he was. I wouldn't have been told either, if I hadn't already been apprenticed to Deshanna at the time. Feynrield traveled with us for a month, maybe less, and I don't think the Keeper slept more than a few hours any night the boy was with us. She watched him constantly. She said the magic he possessed was old, something lost to our People long ago, and that it made him dangerously susceptible to possession." Sahlin frowned then, remembering the way the Keeper had evaded her questions, the way she explained there were certain magics better left forgotten. "That was all Deshanna would say on the matter, but there must have been more to it. It's not common, but even apprentices and Keepers fall to possession on occasion. It wasn't abomination that frightened her."

Her voice trailed off as her mind wrestled with the incomplete memories, the secrets she knew she'd not been made privy to. There really wasn't any more to say about the boy, but Solas was listening with such intensity she felt compelled to continue.

"I spoke to him a few times," she added. "He was scared and alone, just a boy still. There were always dark circles under his eyes, and he said the thought of falling asleep terrified him, that the demons were always waiting for him in his dreams. He'd nearly become an abomination once already. That you could learn to control such a thing by yourself…"

Solas ignored her unspoken question. "And this boy," he said instead, "what became of him?"

Sahlin shrugged. "I don't know. He was travelling to Tevinter when we took him in. He hoped there might be a magister there who could help him control his gift, to understand it."

"And your Keeper let him go?" Solas shouted. The sudden fury in his tone took her by surprise and It was all Sahlin could do to stumble through an excuse.

"There was nothing Deshanna could have done for him," she reasoned. "His magic terrified her. Honestly, I was surprised she let him travel with us at all. And when he did leave, Deshanna sent a message with him for the Keeper of the next clan along his path."

"So your Keeper sent him to Tevinter to sell himself into slavery?" Solas was standing now, pacing the room like an animal locked in a cage.

"She said his gift was rare, that it would be valued in Tevinter. It was the only choice he had. He couldn't control the power on his own, he'd already tried—"

"Fenedhis! The ignorance! Though I suppose I should not be surprised. That is the way of the Dalish, is it not? Abandon everything you do not understand, twist it until it is evil and corrupted and cast it aside for something simpler!"

Sahlin was on her feet now as well, meeting the bare-faced elf glare for glare. "And what do _you_ know of the Dalish? How dare you pretend—"

"You forget that I have spent my entire life walking the Fade, that I have seen Elvhenan and ancient Arlathan in my dreams, that I know better than any that the Dalish are little better than children, acting out scenes from a past thew know nothing about!"

His words wounded her more profoundly than he could have known. It was a sentiment she had expressed herself, on more than one occasion. But that had been with Adris, with another of the Dalish. Everything in her seethed at the notion of an outsider, a bare-faced flat-ear passing such judgment on her People.

"Ma banal las halamshir var then?" she spat. _So instead you abandon our People?_ He had seen Elvhenan, _Arlathan_. Her heart ached at the very possibility of being able to witness such a time, such a place. There was so much he could offer to the Dalish, and instead he mocked them as children for not sharing his gift. The sheer superiority of it, the arrogance, left her heart rebounding against her chest with a hot fury that surpassed any anger she might have felt earlier.

"And what would you have me do?" the bare-faced elf asked. "The Dalish care little about improving their lives, they already consider themselves perfect, the sole keepers of elven lore."

"Ma halani, lasa ghilan!" _Teach us_. "Or are you too _proud_ to even try? Are we so far beneath you that we could not begin to comprehend the knowledge you would withhold?"

Solas's pale eyes were dark and contemptuous when they met hers, but his expression was even again, his composure regained. "This conversation is over, da'len." His voice was low, almost threatening, as he made his way across the room toward the door. "Dirthara'na ma ar ir'halani." The words were barely even a whisper, but she was sure she'd heard him correctly_. May you never know how much I have tried_.

The door slammed to a close behind him and Sahlin sank back down against the bed that was not hers, her chest still heaving with the heat of their argument.

It was all _wrong_.

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_Not a clan in all the Marches or Ferelden to take her!" Adris raged at no one in particular. He glared across the glen that lay just beyond the outskirts of their camp. Even in his fury Adris was quiet, composed. It was why the Keeper called him First and her Second. "There is more magic manifesting among the clans each year. You heard the numbers at the last Arlathvhen. Creators, she's only a child!"_

_ "__The Law is wrong, Adris. Fen'Harel take it and Deshanna too if she can't see that. The world is breaking into chaos and Istimaethoriel wants to abandon a child for bearing the gift of the Elvhen. You have her ear, you—"_

_ "__Fenedhis, Sahlin! Is that all you think of? The el'Rivas? This is my _sister—_"_

_ "__Lavellan will not abandon her, Adris. We both know I am the better choice to leave. I only want you to remember your position when I'm gone, what it means, what it could mean to our people."_

_ "__And where would you go?" he bellowed, anger finally fracturing his ever-calm veneer. "The templars are slaughtering apostates on sight."_

_ "__More reason for it to be me, not Novera. You know I'm right."_

_ "__We are not discussing this, vhenan." Deshanna's First turned to walk away and she knew that would be the end of it._

_ "__Adris—"_

_ "__I said no, Sahlin. There are weeks yet before a decision is to be made."_

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_Adris should be the one to go, Keeper. There is still time to bring him back. Please, hahren!"_

_ "__He has made his decision, da'len. Do not begrudge him that." Sahlin opened her mouth to protest, but the Keeper held up her hand. "This task is yours and yours alone. You are First now, but even if you were still Second, you would have been my choice. This is the path you must walk. Your heart is right for it, da'len. Now go to Haven, lethallan. May Mythal guide you."_

* * *

><p><span><strong>TRANSLATIONS<strong>

sylaise'len: healer, literally "child of Sylaise" (made it up, let's just roll with it)

ir'abelas: I am sorry

Bellanaris: Eternity

fenedhis: common curse

Tel'na Herald: I am not your Herald (I'm basically scrolling through the Dragon Age wiki and making shit up)

da'len: my child, or my student, etc.

lethallin/lethallan: familiar one/clansmen/one of the blood (if you don't know this one, I don't think we've been playing the same game…)

"Ma banal las halamshir var vhen": "You have abandoned your people" (took this one from the game, and it didn't exactly come with a translation, so that's my best guess and how I'm using it)

"Ma halani! Las ghilan!": "Teach us! Be our guide!" (again, from in game, no exact translation was given)

"Dirthara na ma ar ir halani": "May you never know how much I have tried" (made that one up)

el'Rivas: "Our Freedom" (Taking some liberties here. This one alludes to a 'movement' of sorts that will be better explored in later chapters.)

hahren: elder/teacher


	3. Goodbye

**"Hurtled into the Chaos, you fight. And the world will shake before you. -Flemeth**

**A/N:** The next chapter will be another Solas POV and things will finally start rolling along with that one. In the meantime, read and enjoy. This is one of about three scenes that really gave birth to this monstrosity of a story I've got going on.

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Three: Goodbye<strong>

_"Men and women squeezed their torches one last time, remembering the lives for whom they had been lit and then they, too, cast their flames back into the very fires that had given them life. Their voices rang out as one. "Dareth shiral," they whispered, paying homage to the Dalish elf who had guided the passing of their loved ones into the Light."_

**Cullen**

Dusk was falling quickly over the Haven camp, bathing the cabins and hillsides in a dull orange glow. On any other evening, there would still be scouts scurrying to and from the spymaster's tents, filing their reports, checking their ravens; soldiers would still be swinging blows at dummies or parrying steps with one another, though by this time of day, their arms and feet would have grown sluggish. So few of them were decently trained men. In a few years' time, he might have had an army to reckon a minor arl's retinue; in a decade, a force to challenge even a templar legion. But they did not have that much time. He knew it as well as his men. But what the farmers and sell swords and ruffians lacked in training, they made up for in spirit, practicing well into the night, pushing themselves, never making the same mistake twice. They were quick learners, most of them; they had to be. One needed only to look up at the sky, at the deathly green whirlpool of clouds circling the Breach, to remember how much was at stake.

Tonight, though, the practice fields lay empty and only a few of Leliana's people could still be seen scurrying about their tents. Everywhere, men and women were rushing to finish the last of their duties, all preparing for the vigil that would take place at nightfall. The ceremony had been Josephine's idea, a sort of sending off for the troops that would leave at first light, for the Herald and Cassandra who would ride out with them, and for those who had perished at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. "A way to honor those we lost," the ambassador had said, "and a way to say 'goodbye' to those we may yet lose."

His men had already dug out the fire pits, eight of them in all, in three rows. The last row had to be limited to only two pits, one on either side of the massive gates that were the only barrier between their camp and the demons that still roamed the pilgrim's walk. A third pit dug in-between the other two would have only been buried in snow when the gates were drawn shut that evening. The men had rolled out logs to be situated around each pit to serve as makeshift benches. Thirty people could fit comfortably around each fire, but with only eight such pits, everyone knew there would be those who would have to crowd in, to find room to stand or sit where there was none. And so as soon as their duties for the day were finished, men quit the practice fields and left the tavern; some set down the Chant of Light, while others laid down hoes and axes. From where he stood on the steps outside the Chantry doors, Cullen watched as men and women from every walk of life poured out into the field. They found open seats where they could and huddled in close together as the fires had yet to be lit, and they spoke to one another, many of them for the first time. He could hear them, even now, swapping stories of how they'd come to join the Inquisition, of where they were when the hole tore open in the sky, of those they'd lost, of the families they hoped to go home to when this was all over. For the first time, Cullen felt that they breathed as one and, for the first time, he allowed himself the smallest hope that they may yet succeed in their endeavor.

"Josie was right." Cullen didn't need to turn to know it was Leliana, her accent gave her away. "The people needed this."

He absently nodded his agreement, still watching the men and women sitting around their unlit pits.

"We should begin soon," another voice added in, this one unmistakably Cassandra's. "These people need to rest before tomorrow. Who knows when they'll get another chance."

Cullen shifted to make room for the two women. A part of him wanted to make his way down to the fires, to find a seat among the Inquisition forces. It was something he would have done three years ago, shared a drink and toasted the lost with his fellow comrades. But that was before he had been the one to lead those men to their deaths, before it had been _his_ orders the men were carrying out and not him simply carrying out the orders of another. No, the soldiers deserved this night, they had earned the right to feel free, to be able to speak their minds and to relax among one another. That was not something they could do in the presence of their commander.

"Let them have this night, Cassandra," Leliana said, echoing his own thoughts. "This is the rest their hearts need." The spymaster's reproach took him by surprise. In the few years he had worked with her, the woman had seldom come across as compassionate, and in the days since the Divine's death, what little spark of empathy left in her seemed to have all but extinguished. He could not help but feel comforted now by the realization that there was still some humanity left in their spymaster yet.

But Leliana's thoughts had already turned elsewhere. She was watching the small crowd that had gathered at one of the unlit fires. It was the center pit, in the first row, the one closest to the Chantry.

"Tell me, Commander," Leliana said, her voice returned to its usual, placid coolness, "what do you think of our Herald?"

Cullen followed the Orlesian's gaze to where it rested on the woman in question. He had not even noticed her, sitting half-turned toward them, little more than a frail silhouette as the sun fell back behind the mountains. She had her elbows propped on her knees and her chin cradled in her hands as she watched Varric and his wild gesticulations, apparently enraptured with whatever story the dwarf happened to be telling at that moment. The others around her kept their faces turned toward the dwarf as if they, too, were listening to his tale. But Cullen knew better. Even though he could not see it for himself in this light, he knew their eyes were not on the dwarf. They were watching her, the elf with the marked face and the glowing hand. The Herald of Andraste. The Maker's Chosen, who could seal the Breach. The one who would save them all. And she had no idea.

Cullen let loose a sigh, turning his thoughts back to the spymaster's question. What _di__d_ he think of the Herald?

"I'm still not convinced sending her the Hinterlands is the best idea." It was the truth, even if it wasn't necessarily an answer to her question. "She's not Hawke, you know. Mark or no mark, the people are only following an idea."

"And?" the Seeker raised a brow, not following his meaning.

"And given her … _people skills_ it might be best to keep it that way." Cullen bore the Herald no ill will, but the woman was not a leader. _Not like Hawke_, the thought crept in, unbidden, and he pushed it away. He had seen leaders, men and women who could rally an army with a single well-put word. That was who they needed. It was who Leliana and Cassandra had been searching for for years, someone to lead their Inquisition, to guide them in what was to come. Their so-called Herald was not that leader. In the two days she had spent at camp, the woman had kept almost entirely to herself. The few times he had actually heard her speak, it was only to proclaim that she was _not_ the Herald of Andraste. More importantly, the realization of her elven—not to mention Dalish—heritage had so far managed to drown out any mention of the fact that the Herald of Andraste, the Maker's supposed Chosen, was also a mage, a quality he thought far more damaging than a pair of pointed ears ever could be.

Before either Leliana or Cassandra could disagree, and he was certain both women were poised to do just that—he was always outnumbered when it came to these things—another voice cut in.

"I beg to differ, Commander," the ambassador remarked, "I believe our Dalish guest may just surprise us all."

"Josie, I was beginning to think you weren't coming!"

"I apologize, I got carried away responding to a particularly…nasty letter from one of Chancellor Roderick's many delightful acquaintances."

Josephine gave Leliana a quick half-hug and a peck on the cheek in that Orlesian way of theirs, but Cassandra's eyes had not left the Herald.

"I agree," the Seeker said, tone as hard as ever, "the Maker sent her to us for a reason. Most Holy called out to her in the vision at the Breach. She is not Hawke, that is true. But Lavellan is not our Inquisitor, either. She is the Herald of Andraste. The people need to see her."

"That's all fine, Seeker," Cullen found himself conceding…again. "Let the people see her. Just don't let them _talk_ to her, or we may be doing the Chantry's recruiting for them." He had a little laugh at that, but one look at Cassandra told him the Seeker had not thought his joke the slightest bit funny. Clearing his throat, Cullen tried a different approach, "At least see if the girl can handle a bow, or even a pair of daggers. Sending her to the Hinterlands carrying a staff will raise more unnecessary questions. Few people outside this yard know the Herald is a mage, and the longer we can—"

"Oh please, Commander," Leliana interrupted, scoffing, "you of all people know the Chant of Light, you have memorized the Maker's Commandments: _Magic exists to serve man_. How better to serve man than to mend the Breach, than to save us all? What else could the Herald of Andraste be _but_ a mage?"

Cullen had his mouth open, ready to argue, when Josephine cut him off. There was no winning with these women.

"If you will both excuse me," the ambassador said curtly, "this is a riveting academic debate, but night has fallen and if the people are as cold as I, they will not last out here long without the fires. Shall we begin?"

"Go ahead, Josie." Cullen thought there was the slightest hint of victory in the spymaster's tone. "The mages know what to do."

The commander rolled his eyes. That had been Leliana's idea, having the mages light the vigil fires. "A show of good faith," she had said. Even Cassandra had argued against her then, but the spymaster rarely failed to get her way. And when both Leliana _and_ Josephine agreed, arguing was rendered an immediate waste of breath.

"Good." Josephine moved forward a few feet toward the closest of the fires, raising her hands for silence. It took some time, but those nearest to the Chantry caught her gesture and swatted at their unseeing neighbors. Eventually, the little crowds around each fire fell quiet and faces across the yard turned to watch the ambassador. Those in the furthest rows stood on their logs, craning their necks to get a better view.

"Thank you all for coming," the ambassador called out. Her voice carried better than Cullen expected. The woman was generally so soft-spoken. "We have gathered tonight to remember those we have lost, to honor their memory, and to say a prayer for the hard days that are yet to come. Sister Nightingale has prepared a few words that she will share with you all now."

Josephine turned to walk back toward Cullen and Cassandra. Leliana nodded her thanks as the two women passed, swapping places. There were no cheers or applauds to welcome her; the yard was eerily silent. Even the refugee children seemed to hold their breath.

As Leliana stepped forward, Cullen caught sight of the Herald moving out of the corner of his eye. The woman stood from where she had been sitting. Across the yard, a few others moved as well. He could just barely make out the bald head of the elven apostate, Solas, standing at the middle pit in the second row. Others moved around the furthest two fires as well, allowing two more mages to stand. One of the 'mages' was little better than an apprentice. She had been tending horses when the Conclave exploded. It was her inferior rank that had ultimately saved her life. The other was a mage from Kinloch Hold who remained loyal to the Circle, and had begun his solitary trek to Haven long before the Conclave had been destroyed. As it was, he arrived not long after the initial blast, pledging to offer what little aid he could.

"Brothers and sisters," Leliana began, her voice transforming into that of a Chantry Mother. She had been a sister in the Chantry, after all. That she should speak with the cadence of the Mothers should not have surprised him, but Cullen found himself surprised all the same. "Most Holy is dead. Thousands are dead, and thousands more may yet perish. But the Maker teaches us to be strong. In His name, in the name of Divine Justinia V, and in the name of all those we have lost, we _will_ triumph over this evil. The Maker has sent us his Chosen to seal the Breach, to save us from this madness. Stand with her as I stand with her now. Stand with her as she leads us from Darkness. Stand with us, brothers and sisters, stand in the Maker's Light."

For the briefest moment, no one moved. Then slowly, one by one at first, then tens and twenties at a time, men and women stood from where they sat on their makeshift benches. As they stood, flames slowly licked at the timber in the pits. By the time everyone in the yard was standing, all eight pits had erupted entirely in flames, washing warmth over the soldiers and refugees alike. Cullen could feel the heat of the fires even from where he stood by the Chantry doors, and the templar in him could feel the mana that had stoked their flames to life.

Leliana did not give the people time to be surprised, she continued on, bellowing over the roaring of their newly-lit fires. It was from the Chant of Light that she spoke. Across the yards, heads bowed in reverence, and eyes watered with tears. Leliana's cadence rose with each word, and Cullen could feel the hearts of the Inquisition beating, finally, as one:

"Many are those who wander in sin,  
>Despairing that they are lost forever,<br>But the one who repents, who has faith  
><em>Unshaken<em> by the darkness of the world,  
>And boasts not, nor gloats<br>Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight  
>In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know<br>The peace of the Maker's benediction.  
><em>The Light shall lead her safely<em>  
>Through the paths of this world, and into the next.<br>For she who trusts in the Maker, _fire is her water._  
>As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,<br>_She should see fire and go towards Light._  
><em>The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,<em>  
>And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker<br>Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword."

Leliana spoke the words, her voice never wavering, though heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. She wore them proudly, her head held high, as she continued. "Beside you, you will find torches, brothers and sisters. Take one now, and join me," Leliana moved toward the fire where the Herald and Varric stood. Before she could reach for a torch of her own, Varric extended one to her, and Leliana accepted it gratefully.

"Light your torch," she called out to the masses, "and remember those for whom you carry this Light. Carry their Light with you always. May it guide you in the months to come." Leliana thrust her torch into the fire before her. Flames leapt to its oiled end, and she held it high, for the entire yard to see. "To the Divine, to the Mothers who gave their life with her, to the mages and templars who came here seeking peace and found only death." Leliana paused, allowing the weight of her benediction to settle upon her audience. Then, more quietly, she added, "May their Lights guide me."

Across the Chantry yard, others moved to find their own torches. Men and women reached for their wooden handles. Smiths and maids, footmen and templars, mages and the lowliest Chantry clerics held their torches to the fires. They spoke as one as the flames of their torches rose up. They spoke the names of those they had lost and the names of those they feared to lose. They shed their tears together and held their torches high. Cullen's heart throbbed in his chest, beating with masses. After a time, the prayers began to quiet. Only a few could still be heard speaking the names of those whose Light they carried. From one of the furthest fires, a voice rang out over the others, shouting as one would in battle, bellowing words that would steel the heart for the carnage to come: "To the Herald of Andraste!" Torches around that fire shot up even higher, and other voices rang out, adding their prayers, their battle cries to the first: "To the Maker's Chosen!" they bellowed, "May the Maker guide her!" "The Herald of Andraste!" "Light see her safely!" "To the Herald!" All across the yard, torches were thrust into the night sky, proclaiming their defiance, announcing that they were unshaken, that they _would_ stand together, that they would face this Darkness, and that they would emerge victorious.

Then, almost as one, faces began to turn. Even without the yard bathed in the light of the torches and the fires, Cullen would have known where they looked. His own eyes followed theirs to where she stood, the Herald of Andraste, her own torch lit and held high above her head. When she moved, Cullen suspected it might be to run, to retreat back into her cabin as she had done in the days past, to escape their stares. But the Herald walked, head and torch held high, to the centermost fire. Men and women fell over one another to help her onto one of the logs and as she stood there, holding her torch defiantly against the swirling clouds of the Breach, the yard fell silent, holding its breath.

For a moment, she hesitated. For a moment, Cullen could feel her uncertainty. But then she spoke and her voice rang out louder and clearer than Josephine's and even Leliana's. "There is a prayer among the Dalish," she said, her voice strong and steady. She paused, giving them the chance to cry out in protest, to condemn her for blasphemy that she should speak of prayers to Dalish gods during their holy ceremony. But none did. Their eyes did not waver, their breaths did not falter. They watched her, their Herald, sent to them by their Maker, and they listened. After a moment, she continued, her voice still clear and strong over the blazing fires: "We say this prayer for those who can no longer speak the words themselves, we speak the words when we must become a keeper for the fallen. So many—" for the briefest moment, her voice wavered and Cullen could hear the breaths of those around him catch with her, he could hear the quiet tears they shed, "so many have fallen. And so I speak these words now that _you_ might help me to keep their memories, to guide their souls to peace: _Lethanavir, Friend of the Dead, guide my feet. Calm my soul. Lead me to my rest_." Across the Chantry yard, heads bowed and tears fell, other heads nodded their approval, and torches were raised even higher. When she spoke again, the sound of tears caught in the Herald's throat, but her voice rang out all the same: "I speak these words to say farewell to those we lost. I speak these words to say _dareth shiral_." Without warning, the Herald cast her own torch into the bonfire, its wood disappeared into the flames. "I speak these words," the Herald concluded, "to say goodbye."

What happened next, Cullen thought even the Herald could not have expected. Across the Chantry yard, others began to cast their torches into the flames and the sound of their voices rose up over the fires. Some whispered "goodbye" as their torches crumbled in the fires, but far more spoke the elven words, foreign though the sounds were on their tongue. Men and women squeezed their torches one last time, remembering the lives for whom they had been lit and then they, too, cast their flames back into the very fires that had given them life. Their voices rang out as one_. "Dareth shiral," _they whispered, paying homage to the Dalish elf who had guided the passing of their loved ones into the Light.

Cullen watched the scene through eyes blurred with tears of his own. _So many_. _And so many more to follow_.

Beside him, the ambassador whispered her own"dareth shiral" into the night, though she had no torch of her own to return to the flames. Leliana's voice echoed the elven farewell.

For a long time, none of them spoke. When Cassandra finally turned to him, her own eyes were glassy with unshed tears and her voice was so low, so vulnerable, Cullen might not have believed it belonged to her if he had not seen her lips move with the words. "What do you say now, Commander? Is she not the Maker's Chosen?"

But he was not ready to let this moment go, to slip back into the politics and the titles and the mythos. Cullen's eyes held onto the Herald a moment longer. _So many_. "I say 'dareth shiral,' Seeker." His words were as hushed and reverent as Leliana's. "Dareth shiral." _And so many more to follow_.

The commander turned toward the Chantry, leaving the flames and the tears behind him. There were prayers of his own he wanted to say before morning.


	4. Pride and Present

**"Hurtled into the Chaos, you fight. And the world will shake before you." -Flemeth**

**A/N:** _Sahlin_ means "now, in this moment, present" in elvish. Thought that might clarify the chapter title a bit. (I'm assuming we all know _Solas_ means "pride" … )

Not much to say about this one: Finally getting into some real (semi-naked! *le gasp*) character interaction in this chapter, so I'll let you get to it. Don't get your hopes up, though. We're still in rated T territory… for the moment.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter Four: Pride and Present<span>**

_"Solas released a breath he had not realized he was holding and fell back against the ground beside the Dalish elf. He had been careless, venturing off to dream and leaving the mark unattended. Leaving _her_ unattended. _Determined and compassionate, smiling and laughing_—he forced the thought from his mind. _There is no turning back, no running_, he repeated inwardly. _Not this time_."_

_-/-_

_"But he wanted to hold on to her essence for a while longer yet, to wonder at her nature and to consider what it would mean if she were any representation at all of the Dalish."_

**Solas**

Solas stretched his legs wide with each step to loosen the knots that had formed in his muscles. It felt good, familiar, the lethargy that tugged at his eyelids, the ache that throbbed in his arms and legs. Of course, none of it was real. His body was well rested, perhaps more so than it had been since before they'd left the camp at Haven. But the mind is a powerful thing and as far as his thoughts were concerned, he had not slept a minute, let alone an entire night. While his body slumbered, his dreams had roamed the Fade, remembering. Always remembering, reflecting on a time when the world had been _right_, when it had brimmed with potential and possibility. It was soothing to be able to dream again after having been lost so long in the present. Their travels had not left him much opportunity for the respite of his Fade-walking. And the absence of those excursions, that escape, had left him unsettled, an anachronism mired in the present of a world gone wrong. Solas chastised himself for the thought, for the selfishness of it and for the longing he could not permit. Still, though, it was pointless to deny what his heart desired, what it feared. If he could run away now, if he could return to his long sleep again, he would do so without the slightest hesitation. But this was the path that time had forged, the road that _he _created. And there was no turning back, no running. Not this time. He had spent long enough wandering through memories that were not his own—never his own. It was time to wake up.

And yet, even the briefest opportunities to walk among the spirits again, to feel their innocent curiosity, the purity of their fascination, had left him with a renewed sense of purpose; it was the restoration his soul so desperately needed. Thus it was with a rejuvenated step that he returned to the Inquisition camp this morning. The campsite itself was a small affair, but he had felt well-enough assured of its defenses to leave the Dalish elf and her stolen mark tucked away under the ever-watchful eye of the Seeker. It was only for one night, Solas had reasoned with himself, and the camp was well guarded, by men and landscape alike. The Inquisition tents were pitched under the cliff side overlooking a village too obsolete to warrant a name and the tree cover was dense enough that the glow of even a moderately sized fire would not have been seen unless one were right on top of the camp. And anyone who managed to get that close would have an arrow through the eye before he ever saw the tents. Leliana had chosen her scouts well.

Solas pushed aside a branch and ducked his way through the last of the foliage obscuring the camp from sight. The scouts would have already marked his approach. He had seen a few of them on his way up the hillside, though he was not entirely certain he would have noticed them at all had he not already known to look. Yes, the spymaster had chosen well.

"Solas!" the Seeker's hard Nevarran accent grated against his ears. No doubt she had already been warned of his approach; he was still a few steps off yet, there was no way the woman had actually seen him. "Thank the Maker!"

That last part caught his attention, though, and Solas sped his step to reach the little plateau that served as an outcropping for their camp. If Cassandra Pentaghast was thanking the Maker for his return, he was either still in the Fade and trapped in some demon's poor excuse for a joke, or something had gone terribly wrong.

As soon as he reached the top of the hill, he knew it was the latter. There were only a few scouts actually at the camp itself and they were all scurrying from one tent to another, some of them carrying potions, others clean cloths or flagons of water. Cassandra met him almost immediately, her hard features bent in an unflattering look of concern.

"Solas," she repeated. "It seems your … _services_ are required again."

Solas nodded, mind already racing. Wasting no time, the Seeker turned on her heel and he hastened to follow. They crossed the small camp in a matter of minutes, stopping just outside one of the nearer tents. Even before the Seeker had drawn back the flap, the scent of blood and sweat had filled his nostrils. Entering the tent, he saw the dwarf first. Varric was sprawled out, arms and legs akimbo, bleeding openly from a gash in his leg and from another wound somewhere near his chest, judging from the blood pooled on his jerkin. But Solas's attention left Varric almost the moment he saw him. If the dwarf's injuries were that severe …

His eyes found Lavellan. She was half-sitting, half-lying against one of the corner tent posts. A scout had knelt down beside her but the Dalish smacked away his hands as she pulled the end of a bandage with her teeth, tightening it around her own arm.

"It's _nothing_," the elf protested through the bandage. "Have you brought the potions yet? Varric won't last long without—"

Her gaze found Solas and whatever she had been about to say died on her tongue, the bandage dropping from between her teeth.

"Where have you been?" she demanded, her voice hard and wavering at the same time. The Dalish moved to stand up, her dark eyes alight with fury, but the scout pressed a soft hand against the girl's shoulder that sent her falling back against the pole with a grunt. _Worse than she looks, then, if a single touch was able to subdue her_. That made up his mind and Solas moved toward the other elf.

But Lavellan recoiled at his approached. "Don't you dare," she threatened. "Not before Varric." Her words were breathless, and it was apparent she was using energy she didn't have to level her demands at him. The scout moved away as Solas neared, making room, but that only agitated her more. "I mean it, Solas," she panted. "See to Varric. He won't last long. I'm tired is all, and a little scratched up. _Please_."

"She dragged him most of the way here," the Seeker added. Cassandra had moved to kneel beside Varric, and was peeling back his jerkin to reveal a laceration that looked dangerously close to the heart. Solas gave the Dalish one last look; she nodded, the plea in her eyes apparent; and then he turned to where Varric lay stretched out on the ground.

Solas's hands were on the dwarf even before his knees hit the ground. It was not the way a Circle mage would have done it, of that he was certain. He was more efficient than the mages of new, feeling for the dwarf's life force rather than the wounds, reaching for the energy that made him _him_. It was weak, a pale warmth against the cold, sticky death threatening to snuff it out. Solas poured his own energy into the warmth, stoking the fire back into life, willing the dwarf to fight again. Slowly, he could feel the warmth beginning to grow as bones righted themselves and skin knitted its way back together, the energy growing into a hot fire that was alive and obstinate, cynical and lonely, sensitive and devout—everything that made Varric who he was.

Solas pulled his hands away and Varric came up with them, coughing, spitting blood. Alive. Lavellan was right. The dwarf had been dangerously close to death. Solas suppressed the feeling that was Varric from his thoughts. No, it was not the way a Circle mage would have done it; Solas doubted they were even aware of the practice any longer. But to heal in the way that he did meant touching the essence of that person. It was a necessary invasion and he tried not to permit himself to see or feel more of his patient than absolutely required.

"What in the—" Varric's eyes flew open and swung around the tent, taking in Solas and the Seeker almost simultaneously. He shot up as the memories returned to him. "Lavellan! Seeker, we have to—"

"I'm here, Varric," the Dalish's voice was weaker than it had been even a few moments ago. But her eyes were still open, watching them.

"Andraste's flaming ass, Snowflake," the dwarf huffed, falling back to the ground. "I thought we were demon toast for sure."

Solas was already up and moving towards the elf in the corner. She nodded absently at Varric, her eyes falling shut as her head dropped back against the pole. Solas pressed a hand against her shoulder, feeling for her energy the same way he had felt for Varric's. But this time, there was no warmth to be found.

His eyes shot open and he took in her form, assessing. Nothing looked wrong, but there had to be something he was missing for her essence to be so weak. Then he saw it. A flash of white where there should have been only the greens and browns of her coat and tunic. Solas pushed back the coat and heard the Seeker's gasp from behind him. A yellow-white claw jutted out of the girl's abdomen, just under the ribs.

"Maker, no," the Seeker whispered. "But you can heal her, Solas?" she demanded, more than asked.

Even Varric was scrambling to his feet behind him, breathing hard with the effort of it. "Blighted terror," he panted. "I didn't even see—"

"Get out," Solas roared. He needed to _think_. "Get out, all of you! Now. If you want the Herald to live, I need to be able to focus. Leave the potions and the cloths, and get out."

There was a moment's hesitation before anyone did anything.

"Do as he says," the Seeker half-ordered, half-whispered. "Now."

He could hear the others scrambling to obey, but his thoughts were no longer with them. He pressed his hands beneath Lavellan, guiding her body to lie flat against the ground. He half expected her to protest, but the elf was now fully unconscious. Solas allowed himself to hesitate for the briefest moment. It would have to be quick. There was a drought of lyrium left among the healing potions and herbs that the scouts had left behind. He pulled the cork from the vial and tilted it to his lips, swallowing it all.

Then, without wasting another second, he wrapped his fingers around the claw and pulled it out in one swift motion. Dark black-red blood came out with it, growing like spilled ink on parchment across the green tunic. Solas pressed his hands against the wound, feeling the blood, hot and sticky under his hands. This time his thoughts reached only for the wound; he felt for it, for the severed veins and ruptured organs. Grasping hold, he willed each vein back together, he felt the tissue growing, reaching, trying to be whole again as he fit the broken pieces back together. Then it was there, finally, a dull warmth fighting to stave off the cold. But he dared not give himself over to hope, not yet. He felt his own mana flowing towards the warmth, cradling it, coaxing it back into existence. It had been easier with Varric. He had not exhausted so much of himself on unnaturally forcing broken pieces together. It was much more natural to help the body to heal itself. But slowly, eventually, her life flickered back into existence. Then, almost without warning, it was burning again, alive all at once, stubborn and bright and full of passion, determined and compassionate, smiling and laughing, curious and skeptical and honest, and—

Solas jerked his hands away, embarrassed. His eyes shot to the elf still sprawled out on the ground. Her chest rose and fell in even breaths. Alive. But her eyes remained closed. She would be asleep for a while longer yet. She had not seen anything, had not felt his intrusion.

Solas released a breath he had not realized he was holding and fell back against the ground beside the Dalish elf. He had been careless, venturing off to dream and leaving the mark unattended. Leaving _her_ unattended. _Determined and compassionate, smiling and laughing_—he forced the thought from his mind. _There is no turning back, no running_, he repeated inwardly. _Not this time._

* * *

><p>Solas was surprised by how long it had taken for Cassandra and Varric to stick their heads back into the tent. He was certain they were just outside waiting for some word, any word, from within. When the pair finally did reappear, they looked to Solas only long enough to see him beckon them in, and then their eyes were on her, their Herald of Andraste, laid prostrate at the rear of the tent.<p>

"She is asleep," Solas said, answering the question they dared not ask. "When she wakens, there is still more to be healed but at the moment, it is better for her to rest."

The Seeker nodded, but Solas could see her shoulders sag with relief and Varric audibly exhaled the breath he had been holding. Their concern was apparent and it was not just for the Herald, Solas realized, but for Lavellan herself. The realization played on his mind, tugging at thoughts he dared not entertain and yet—

"I gotta hand it to you, Chuckles." Varric said, interrupting thoughts better left forgotten. "I feel better than new. You do good work."

"If Solas had not arrived when he did, _Varric_," the Seeker barked from across the tent, "you and the Herald would both be dead. What were you _thinking_ letting her go off on her own?"

Varric leveled an irritated glare at the Seeker, but Cassandra hardly seemed to notice. She was still inspecting the Dalish's bandages, assuring they were clean enough, tied well enough. Solas did not bother to explain that they would just have to be undone when the girl awoke again. _Let her have her concern_, he thought. It was so rare a thing for the Seeker, it was almost endearing to witness.

"Last I checked, Seeker," Varric retorted, "the Herald isn't a child. If she wants to go off on her own, she can. Besides, she didn't actually go anywhere _alone_."

Cassandra harrumphed, making it apparent that, as far as she was concerned, going off with the dwarf was just as bad as going it alone. Solas listened to their bickering in silence, still curious himself as to what exactly had transpired since he had left camp the night before.

"And to go _hunting_ no less!" the Seeker continued her tirade, moving away from Lavellan to direct her glare more effectively at the dwarf. "I suppose it never occurred to you that a rift could appear anywhere? That there might be creatures worse than wild rams roaming the hills!"

The dwarf, to his credit, did not so much as flinch under her glower. "It was her idea, Seeker, and she was going with or without me. Or would you rather I'd let her go alone? Besides, what did you expect? You heard Vale: people are starving. You didn't think _that_ would get her attention after everything she's done so far? The Chantry might as well eat their words now, while they're ahead. If that kid isn't a gift from the Maker, you can sign me up for whatever god sent her!"

Cassandra rolled her eyes and threw her hands up, exasperated. "That's what we have scouts for, Varric! She could have _died_."

Solas grit his teeth, irritated. The dwarf was correct: they _should_ have expected this, he and the Seeker both. Corporal Vale mentioned last night that supplies were running low in the villages. It was an offhand remark, nothing intended to inspire a pre-dawn hunting excursion. But he had travelled alongside the Dalish long enough now that he should have anticipated her actions. There were no hunters among the villagers; they relied on trade to get by. But with the war between the templars and rebel mages spilling out across the plains of the Hinterlands, fewer and fewer merchants were making it into the villages each day. The people were going hungry. She would not have let that go. _Determined and compassionate._ He should have known better.

"Look," Varric snapped, his patience with the Seeker's berating obviously expired, "I learned my lesson alright? In the future, we bring Chuckles. Happy now?"

Cassandra's mouth opened to argue when a voice from across the room silenced her.

"Helping others isn't really Solas's thing, Varric," Lavellan rasped from where she lay, her eyes just barely open, watching them.

Cassandra and Varric were upon her almost immediately. They had not heard what she said, had not cared. They only knew that their Herald was awake again and speaking. Lavellan moved to lift herself but drew in a sharp breath at the effort, dropping back against the ground almost immediately.

Solas bit back his frown. Cassandra and Varric made room for him as he neared his patient, but just barely; neither wanted to move too far from Lavellan's side. "You shouldn't move," he warned, kneeling beside the girl once more. "Not yet at least."

"Weren't sure you were going to make it, Snowflake," Varric cut in, interrupting any further instructions Solas intended to give. To his right, the Seeker added, "Thank the Maker you're alright."

Lavellan's weak smile took in the dwarf and Cassandra both, but her eyes looked past Solas. "I'm glad to see you're alright, Varric," she rasped. The strain on her voice alone made it apparent that she still had many wounds in need of tending.

"I suppose I have Chuckles to thank for that," the dwarf laughed, "and you too, I hear. You could have died, you know, making the man work on me first. And if you croaked, Snowflake, let me tell you: the Seeker really would have killed me then. So thanks for that, I guess. For future reference, I think I'll take death by demons over death by Cassandra. No offense, Seeker." Varric winked at the Seeker, and the contorted expression she returned might even have been considered a smile. Lavellan attempted to laugh as well, but the effort brought tears to her eyes and a coughing fit that ended in spat up blood.

"Easy there, Snowflake." Varric's voice was softer than usual. "Don't go breaking a rib at my expense."

"She needs more rest," Solas said, his attention on the Seeker and the dwarf, not caring to see what Lavellan's eyes held for him. _Helping others isn't really Solas's thing, Varric. _"But she should be strong enough now for one last healing. After that, she may sleep."

Cassandra and Varric nodded, almost in unison. "Then we will leave you to it," the Seeker replied curtly. She gave the Dalish one last glance as Varric wished the girl luck, and then both of them were on their feet and walking back towards the front of the tent. Solas watched them disappear behind the flap before returning his gaze to the bandaged elf stretched out before him.

Despite their weeks of travelling together, they had barely exchanged a handful of words since leaving Haven. What little had been said between them was never more than necessary, a direction in the midst of a skirmish, a curt request to pass the kettle from the fire, never anything of consequence. She was still bitter over their argument at Haven, he knew. A more pliable man might have offered an apology, if only to make matters easier between them. But he was not a pliable man, and he had no intention of apologizing for his temper when it had been well warranted and she too much a child to understand. Still, it surprised him that her own frustration had not dissipated after so long, and he could not decide whether he thought that a hallmark of her childishness or an indication of something more promising. Such were his contemplations as they roamed the plains of the Hinterlands in stiff silence.

Looking back at her now, Solas could already see the stubborn set of her jaw and the resolve in her eyes, staring intently up at the tent above her. _Stubborn and bright and full of passion_. He ignored the intrusion, pressing the feeling—the feeling of _her_—from his thoughts.

"It was foolish of you, concealing the claw," he said at last. Conversations were not easy for him, not in the way that they had been, not with the world changed as it was. Scolding, at least, was still familiar.

But Lavellan merely shrugged, unaffected, still staring up at the tent. "It was my fault Varric was even out there."

"He would have followed you whether you asked him or not, da'len." Solas spoke softly, as if to a child. That was what she was, after all. Among her own people, she might have been considered an adult. She had seen over twenty winters, of that he was certain. Though he doubted she had seen as many as thirty. A child, still. _Curious and skeptical and honest. _"Any of us would have." The words slipped past his lips without his permission, a thought never intended to be spoken aloud.

At that, her dark eyes leapt to his, holding him there, questioning. But Solas did not intend to explain himself. So he returned her stare, his own gaze tracing the familiar lines of the blood writing that marred her forehead. An aberration of the original mark, but so close she might have been—

"I am _not_ the Herald of Andraste, Solas." Even dry and cracked as it was, there was a strength in her voice that did not match her marked face.

"No," he answered evenly, "no, da'len, you are not."

Her brows drew closer together, confused. _Any of us would have. _He should not have said it, should not have even thought it. _Let her wonder_, he told himself. This conversation of theirs had run its course; it had gone on too far already.

"Here," Solas moved to press a hand beneath her back. "Can you sit? It will make this easier."

Lavellen eyed him a moment longer. He could see the unspoken questions lingering behind her dark eyes, but she was too proud to give him the satisfaction of asking. He could see that as well. So instead the Dalish gave him a quick nod and grit her teeth as he pressed his hands beneath her, easing her into a seated position. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears when he finished, but she had not cried out once. _Stubborn_. She clenched her jaw even tighter as he directed his attention to the bandages, unwinding them from where they were wrapped about her middle, and he knew it was not pain but frustration that set her teeth on edge. She was not fond of being under his care.

With the bandages finally removed and discarded in a bloodstained, mottled heap on the ground beside her, Solas set his attention on the worst of her injuries, the gash just beneath her ribcage. Even through the coat and the tunic, it was apparent the wound had not yet been fully healed. The bleeding had stopped, as far as he could tell, but her garments were so blood-soaked, it was impossible to be sure. He reached a hand to remove her coat, but Lavellan recoiled.

"I can manage," she told him in a voice he was sure was weaker than she intended.

Solas heaved an irritated breath, but he did not stop her as she grit her teeth and twisted back and forth until she finally managed to shrug the soiled coat from her narrow shoulders. But even with the coat deposited behind her and her face contorted in pain at the effort it had taken, there was little more to be seen of her injury than there had been with the garment still on. Solas pressed a gentle finger against the torn material of her tunic, peeling back what he could, trying to get a better view.

"By the Dread Wolf," Lavellan huffed, swatting his hands away impatiently. "Here, help me unbutton this. You can't see anything like that and neither can I."

Despite himself, Solas withdrew his hands at her swatting, taken aback by the curse. It had been quite some time since he'd heard the phrase spoken aloud and he did not bother to suppress the frown that creased his lips at the sound of it. But Lavellan had already taken his withdrawal as an opportunity to begin unclasping the lowest of her tunic's buttons. She would not be able to reach most of them; her wound would not permit her to lift her arms that far.

"If you like, I can call for Cassandra," he offered.

"Oh please, Solas," she scoffed, "I think we both know that's not necessary."

There would need to be feelings between them—other than an irritable dislike—to make this awkward, she meant. And of those such feelings, there were none. _Determined and compassionate, smiling and laughing_. Solas swallowed the thought. Her fingers had already struggled to release as many of the buttons as she could manage and her dark eyes found his once more, lifting a brow expectantly.

Solas gave her an indifferent shrug and moved forward so that his knees pressed against her thighs, giving him a better angle. A part of him, old and almost forgotten, lurched. His fingers found the remaining buttons and slipped them deftly from their slits one at a time. This, too, was familiar, easy even. Conversation, people, kingdoms, entire races might change over the course of a hundred or even a thousand years. But this…_this_ would always be the same. As his hands slid across her chest to release the last of the buttons, Lavellan attempted to withdraw, intending to shrug her way out of the tunic as she had the coat, to retain that little bit of control. But his fingers had already found the corners of her collar and he held her there. _Familiar. Easy. _Her dark eyes locked onto his, suddenly uncertain. Slowly, intentionally, Solas eased the garment from her shoulders, leaving her bare before him, naked from the waist up, save for the thin band wrapped around her breasts. He could hear her breath catch, but she did not protest. Her gaze held onto his, unwavering. _Stubborn and bright and full of passion._

Her pale skin was already prickling against the cool air and as soon as Solas let the tunic drop from her shoulders, Lavellan had her arms up, drawing them protectively across her chest. Whether it was the cold or her own modesty that compelled her, Solas did not know or care; something else had caught his eye as she brought her arms up, a discoloration on her wrists, all too familiar to him, and too old to have occurred just this morning.

"What is this?" he demanded, his tone somewhat harsher than intended.

Solas reached for her wrist, grasping at it, indifferent to her attempts to withdraw from him. But Lavellan fell still almost the moment his fingers had closed around her skin. She did not fight him as he drew her arm forward, inspecting the grey-green splotches that spread out beneath thick almost bark-like scabs. Too late, he recalled their first encounter in the Chantry prison, where she lay shackled to the stone floor. Too late, he remembered the way she had writhed under the pain of the mark on her hand expanding; too late he recalled the manacles biting into her wrists, tearing across the skin, leaving her flesh bloodied and raw. Too late.

For once, Lavellan's eyes fell, not meeting his. Ashamed. She knew as well as he that the wounds would scar. There was nothing he could do for an injury this far along. Solas stared at the elf before him: sitting there, half-naked, the blood writing scarred across her visage, eyes downturned, with her once-manacled wrists held between his fingers. She was a ghost, an image left over from the memories even he dared not wander. The shock of it jarred him and he released his hold on her wrist.

"Why didn't you tell me at Haven?" he breathed, "I could have—"

At that, her dark eyes shot up, glaring and accusing, and his words died on his tongue; he knew why. _Helping others isn't really Solas's thing, Varric_. The image of the ghost before him shattered, broken by the defiance that shone in her bright eyes. This elf was something else entirely, a creature who could wear the scars on her face and her wrists proudly, who could make _him_ feel the inferior in their presence.

"Pass me the water and the cloths," she said, after a time.

There was no judgment in her words, no censure for his ignorance, for his selfishness. It was a simple request, made in a weary voice. She had made her peace with the scars already; she must have known, even in Haven, that they would leave their mark upon her, and she had deemed that preferable to asking for his help. And he had been too ignorant, too frustrated, to offer any. Solas handed her the flagon of water in silence and pulled the basket of clean linens towards them so that the cloths would be within her reach. He might have given her anything she wanted at that moment, so thorough was his shame. _Helping others isn't really Solas's thing, Varric. _

_Determined and compassionate, smiling and laughing._

Solas averted his eyes as she bathed herself, washing away the dried clots of blood where the terror claw had been lodged in her abdomen only hours earlier. When she had finished, he returned his attention to her middle only, avoiding her eyes. Her skin was a kaleidoscope of blacks and purples and reds. Some bruises were larger than others; some came with cuts and others with angry whelps. But it was the mangled skin beneath her ribcage that held his attention. This, too, was familiar, easy. It was a task he had performed a thousand times; the routine of it comforted him and quieted his roiling thoughts.

"This may hurt," he said, his own voice a near-whisper. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod, bracing herself.

Solas pressed his hands against her abdomen. Lavellan drew in a pained breath, but she remained still beneath his fingers. The mana flowed through him and into her, searching for the warm glow that was Sahlin Lavellan. This time, he was able to find her light easily enough; it burned brightly, already battling against the various injuries that beset her. He channeled his energy into hers, stoking the warmth into hot, vibrant flames, directing its efforts, mending the worst of her wounds first and then turning its attention to the more minor scrapes and scratches. He could feel her body rejuvenating, becoming whole again: stubborn and bright and full of passion, determined and compassionate, smiling and laughing, curious and skeptical and honest, forgiving and decisive, uncertain and—

Solas forced himself to sever the connection, and his ears burned with the embarrassment of how great an effort it had been to pull himself away. _Forgiving and decisive and certain_—he wanted to know more. He should have thrust the feeling of her from his mind. That would have been the appropriate thing to do. But he wanted to hold on to her essence for a while longer yet, to wonder at her nature and to consider what it would mean if she were any representation at all of the Dalish. _Stubborn and bright and full of passion, determined and compassionate, smiling and laughing, curious and skeptical and honest, forgiving and decisive, uncertain._

"Ma serranas."

Her voice was so soft, Solas thought he might have imagined it. But when he looked up, he found her gaze already on him, watching, brows knit over eyes heavy with exhaustion.

"Hamin, da'len," he replied. _Rest_. It was easier than trying to explain that he was not worthy of her thanks. But her eyes held onto his, not letting him go.

"The Dalish _would_ hear you, hahren." Her voice was barely above a whisper. Sleep threatened to overcome her at any moment. "We are not all children." Lavellan's eyelids flickered as she fought to stay awake. Solas watched as her eyes fluttered shut one last time, finally giving over to the exhaustion. A weak smile played on his lips.

"No, lethallan," he whispered, "no, I do not believe you are."

But she was already asleep, lost to her own dreams. Solas slipped the coat from his shoulders and tucked it in around her.

For perhaps the first time in his life, the Fade-walker felt content to remain awake, to exist here and now with her, Sahlin, _in this moment_.


End file.
